


the sound and rhythm of the narrative

by SicIturAdAstra



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Pure Unadulterated Fluff, Unwanted Editor Alex, alex is an obnoxious shit, thomas is a hermit, writer thomas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-06
Updated: 2017-03-06
Packaged: 2018-09-28 16:40:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10138964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SicIturAdAstra/pseuds/SicIturAdAstra
Summary: "Did you finally get an editor?""What, no!" Thomas takes an indignant bite of his food, and ignores James' look of disgust as he talks with his mouth full. "Some dick took the initiative and edited it himself, and then he mailed it to me!"He wants James to validate how ridiculous this is, but instead he says, "he has some good points. You need to punctuate more."





	

**Author's Note:**

> hello friends, please enjoy this trash ship with me

_Tree of Liberty_

_by Thomas Jefferson_

_To Martha_

 

* * *

 

Thomas has barely walked in the door and already James is talking at him.

"Why are you in my house?" Thomas interrupts, ignoring all talk of 'profits' or 'readership' or anything that sounds remotely businessy.

James doesn't even falter, merely segues from boring talk of financials into answering the question. "You're three weeks behind your deadline. I need that draft now."

"I'm still working on it."

"Hence why I'm here. I'm not leaving until I get that draft."

"Well that's just ridiculous." Thomas opens his fridge, hoping that his various condiments have bred since this morning. No luck. Usually, Thomas is pretty on top of keeping his fridge stocked; but in the past week he's stress cooked his way through everything. He ended up giving most of the meals to his elderly neighbours or homeless shelters, he tends to stress eat as well if there was food in the house.

"I know you Thomas, if I leave you alone, you'll manage to put it off for another week, and then another and another." The soft crinkle of a plastic bag draws Thomas' attention away from his pathetic fridge; James has placed a bag of food on the kitchen bench. Thomas starts rifling through it, half listening to James complain about his inability to stick to deadlines. The groceries are much more interesting. Milk, butter, cheese...

"You got macaroni!" Thomas exclaims. His only response is a withering glare. Immediately, Thomas starts prepping to cook, but James beats him to the punch, stealing the pan straight from his hands.

"Go. Write. I'll cook." James turns on his heel and starts pulling bowls and spatulas out of drawers. It's a well practiced dance, and it should chafe, but James is his oldest friend for all he's technically Thomas' boss, and there's enough affection under the admonishment to curb the insult.

Just to be a shit though, Thomas checks his mail first.

Reading through his mail is always an arduous task. It isn't that he receives a lot of fan mail - he does - but so much of it is the same boring drivel. Thomas has never fancied being the centre of attention, and he would have been more than content publishing all his novels anonymously. But then along came James and his obnoxiously gentle manner and careful prodding and before he knew it, Thomas' name was attached to a bestselling novel.

The fan mail followed.

As cruel as it may sound, Thomas doesn't read all of it. He doesn't even read most of it. In fact, he tends to skip over everything but two types of letters - those written by children, which he puts aside to respond to later, and those that looked like hate mail. They were endlessly entertaining.

There doesn't seem to be much today, no letters written in blood (which only happened once but the idea that his stupid book inspired someone to write in blood made him laugh for a solid forty minutes. Then he called the cops), but there is one that stands out. A package, which is a tad unusual, and no return address, which is the usual sign of hate mail. People are always quick to be hateful when they don't have to own up to their words.

Opening it up, Thomas finds himself speechless.

For one, inside is a copy of his own book. Two, there's no letter or anything to explain this. Furrowing his brow, Thomas flips the book over, looking for any reason as to why someone would send him a copy of his own book.

Then he opens the cover.

The dedication page, which was mostly blank when he wrote it, has a short addendum now, written in a harsh scrawl with red pen.

_I fixed it for you._

"What the fuck..." Thomas mumbles.

He flips the page.

Just looking at the first page of his book, Thomas can tell that whoever this is has too much time on their hands. The asshole's fucking _annotated_ his book, providing corrections and pointing out grammatical mistakes that must exist solely in the mind of this deluded individual. Flipping through the rest of the book, Thomas can see that they don't flag in the slightest. Every page is a mess of red, with colourful commentary like _no one speaks like this_ and _who the fuck are you talking about stop playing the pronoun game_. Every second word has a comma inserted after it and he's corrected the spelling on several words that were spelt correctly.

"Are you reading your own book?" James places a steaming bowl of mac and cheese in front of Thomas, snatching the book from his hands . "Did you finally get an editor?"

"What, no!" Thomas takes an indignant bite of his food, and ignores James' look of disgust as he talks with his mouth full. "Some dick took the initiative and edited it himself, and then he mailed it to me!"

He wants James to validate how ridiculous this is, but instead he says, "he has some good points. You need to punctuate more."

"What."

"You'd be a quicker writer if you didn't insist on editing your own work. And finesse is hardly your strong suit." James takes a bite of his own food, ignoring the ever increasing frustration Thomas is projecting in his general direction.

"You know what, fuck you James."

Thomas storms to his computer and manages to finish the draft in only three hours. The quicker James is out of his house the better.

But James blows him a kiss as he leaves, and there's mac and cheese in his fridge, so Thomas can't stay mad for too long.

Besides, with that latest draft done, Thomas figures he can get another three weeks before James is pestering him again.

 

* * *

 

_Blood of the Tyrant_

_by Thomas Jefferson_

_To Martha_

* * *

 

Thomas deletes another message without even listening to it.

The release of his newest book was met with resounding praise. For most people, this would be a good thing, and he guesses that, with the advantage of distance, it can be seen as that. As it is, Thomas is debating whether he should just move halfway across the world and never write another word.

Someone leaked his phone number online. His phone has been ringing almost constantly, to the point where Thomas was considering just turning it off until he could get a new number. The only thing stopping him was the memory of James' face the last time he did that. If there was one thing James required, it was for Thomas to be contactable.

So he instead watched his phone ring.

The period just after he published a book was probably the worst. Thomas was not a man content with idleness. It wasn't that he needed to be constantly moving, but he needed a project. Something to work on. A deadline, a prospect.

A reason to get out of bed.

Already, Thomas had started planning out his next novel. The structure was already in place, but there were some finer details he needed to figure out, some character traits he had originally thought were a good idea but was rethinking now.

Despite his head start on the next novel, Thomas is under no illusions as to when it will be done by. James usually gives him about six months before he starts asking for rough drafts. He knows Thomas writes quickly, but if he doesn't start hounding early, it'll be a solid ten years before Thomas publishes anything. He'd much rather endlessly perfect his work than submit it to a critical world.

Speaking of.

Sitting innocuously under his mail slot is a suspiciously book sized parcel. Inspecting it reveals no return address, and Thomas hates how his thoughts drift to the last book he received. To his embarrassment (and James' eternal amusement), it sits on his bookshelf, right next to _War and Peace_. There's something grossly inappropriate about displaying his own book next to one of the greatest published novels of all time, but he can't bring himself to throw it out. Thomas can take criticism, no matter how incorrect the critique. To get rid of the book would be admitting defeat.

So instead of simply ignoring the package and tossing it without a second thought, Thomas opens it and is not disappointed when he is greeted with a copy of his own book. Once again, there is no note or name, just the scrawl on the dedication page.

_It's like you didn't even listen to me._

The red is insulting in how brazen it appears, defacing his simple but heartfelt dedication to Martha. The rest of the book is much the same, red scrawl in every available inch. If anything, his entrepreneurial editor is even more critical. In the first chapter alone, they've scribbled harsh epithets like _I can't believe this is an actual sentence you wrote_ and _whoever the fuck edited this deserves to be drawn and quartered_  and, Thomas' personal favourite _the fact that you made me read this bullshit with my own two eyes proves that there is no god, for surely he would not make me suffer so_.

Thomas can feel his blood boiling, and is halfway through writing a scathing retort when he realises that he can't even send it to this person. He ends up tearing his eloquently written response into tiny pieces, hoping for some form of closure. When that doesn't prove effective, he instead sits down at his computer and types so angrily he almost breaks the keyboard.

Thomas spends the next fourteen hours writing in some sort of rage fuelled haze, only stopping when his vision swims past the point of comfortable and he has to lie down. Even still, he doesn't stop thinking, his mind swirling through what he'd like to say to this dipshit if he had the chance.

He skilfully ignores James' raised eyebrow when he sees the newest addition to Thomas' bookshelf. Honestly, he deserves some kind of award for putting up with this disrespect.  


* * *

 

_Delineate and Define_

_by Thomas Jefferson_

_To Martha_

_&_

_The Worst Fan in the World_

* * *

 

"I can't believe you gave him a dedication in your book."

"It was hardly a nice dedication."

James somehow manages to convey both disbelief and smugness in a single raised eyebrow, and Thomas has got to learn how to do that.

"You gave him a dedication. In your book."

"Is this going somewhere, James?"

Instead of answering, James simply throws a package on to the table, disrupting the careful harmony between Thomas' notepad and his variety of pens, each one a different colour depending on what he's writing at the time. Thomas makes a wounded sound in the back of his throat, that James completely ignores because he is a terrible human being.

"Your worst fan is the most dedicated editor you've ever had, and you don't even pay him." James spins on his heel and walks away, and if Thomas had a normal person's set of boundaries, he'd be annoyed that this meant James had broken into his house _again._

"That's because all his ideas are wrong!" Thomas yells, ignoring the weird looks the rest of the cafe-goers gave him. It wasn't often that Thomas had the desire to write in the outside world, but sometimes he liked to put on the appearance of enjoying society. Grumbling to himself, Thomas is already in a terrible mood before he even opens the package. It only gets worse from there.

Once again, his dedication page had been vandalised, and Thomas sends a silent apology to Martha for inviting this absurdity.

_excuse you my brilliant edits saved your shitty book. worst fan in the world go fuck yourself prick_

The words are jagged and almost carved into the page, and Thomas takes a sick sense of satisfaction in knowing he got under their skin. Somehow, the book is even more heavily edited than usual, and there's a small part of him that admires his mysterious fan's dedication to being a shit. After all, it's been some three years since his first book was published, and whilst Thomas is finally coming to terms with being a somewhat famous author, it's still weird to have proof that people have waited that long just for something he wrote.

There's something passionate about the way his fan writes. Thomas knows that one of the biggest criticisms he receives is that, whilst Thomas has obvious passion for what he does, his writing can come across as restrained. This is evidently not an issue his fan has ever had. Everything they write is opinionated and horribly wrong, but it can't be denied that they believe it wholeheartedly.

He's halfway through chapter three when things take a decidedly political turn. Thomas is more than happy to admit that he models his books after his own beliefs; he may be a writer now, but before Martha passed away, he had aspirations for holding office. Writing was a necessary release, something he could do from the safety of his room and away from prying eyes while he mourned.

Becoming an author was mostly accidental and entirely James' fault.

The fact that he embeds his political ideology into his books is not a surprise. What is surprising is just how offended his fan gets at the very _notion_ of someone believing differently to him.

 _the fuck is this that's not how money works_ gets a genuine laugh out of Thomas, especially given that it's followed by an actual, written lecture on how the financial system of American functions, complete with the history of the national bank system. Before he even realises, Thomas has started rewriting a scene for his next book, addressing the reason why everything his fan wrote is incorrect, and that whilst the banks may function, that doesn't necessarily make them the best option.

He's barely through chapter five and Thomas has written enough to justify a whole new book.

 

* * *

 

_Swim with the Current_

_by Thomas Jefferson_

_To Martha_

_&_

_The Worst Fan in the World_

_(stop editing my work you little shit)_

 

* * *

 

"I can't believe I let you publish that."

James sits dejectedly on the front stoop of Thomas' modest townhouse. For the first time in their entire friendship, he's waited for Thomas to get home instead of just breaking in.

"Did you not read the dedication before you sent it off?"

"Why would I read your dedication? I already know what you're going to write."

"Evidently," Thomas takes great enjoyment in stretching the word out, watching James' eye twitch, "you should've been more thorough. Isn't that your job?"

"Don't make me fire your insolent ass." James unlocks the door, leaving it open for Thomas to follow.

"When the hell did you get a key to my house?!" Taking long strides after James, Thomas almost trips on the - now expected -  package on the ground. After four books, Thomas is hardly surprised anymore. It's like clockwork.

"Open your stupid package, don't let me stop you." James' voice emanates from somewhere in the house, and Thomas doesn't waste another second, tearing the plastic away to reveal his book. Eagerly, he flips to the dedication page.

_As if you don't look forward to this. - Alexander._

Thomas blinks.

Then he reads it again.

Blinks once more for good measure.

"Uh, James?" His voice is reedy with nerves, although Thomas hardly thinks he can be blamed. After all, how  are you supposed to react when the guy who edits your books for shits and giggles all of a sudden gives his name? "Can you come tell me I'm not imagining this?"

James comes back to the entranceway and is already looking at Thomas like he's crazy, which is only a shade away from his usual look. but he obligingly picks up the book. His eyebrows slowly rise, and it's probably the first time Thomas has seen him looked shocked.

It doesn't last long. Immediately, his eyes snap to Thomas', and there's something scrutinising in his gaze, although Thomas can't tell what for the life of him.

"Congratulations Thomas. Your worst fan now has a name."

Thomas frowns, staring at the name in red. There's something uncomfortable in seeing his fan's - in seeing _Alexander's_ \- name written there. He flips to chapter one, and is not surprised by the sheer amount of edits made.

What he is surprised at is how much more... _personal_ the entire thing feels, now that it isn't just some nameless weirdo. Now, it's Alexander who writes _you've evidently never been poor because this is not how it works_ and _use a fucking colon if you're gonna list shit, it's not rocket science. Eight year olds know this shit._

Thomas only realises he's smiling when James mutters something under his breath about putting up with morons.

For both of their sakes, Thomas ignores him.

 

* * *

 

_The Homage of Reason_

_by Thomas Jefferson_

_To Martha_

_&_

_Alexander_

_Please learn how the comma functions_

 

* * *

 

He writes his latest book in record time.

At some point, Thomas stopped looking forward to the idea of a project and started looking forward to the inevitable book-shaped parcel on his doorstep. It's a bit pathetic, but Alexander (it still thrills and terrifies him in equal amounts, that he has a name to call his fan) has quickly become one of the cornerstone's of Thomas' social group.

It's pretty much him and James, so it's a fairly exclusive club.

There is a part of him, the self-aware part, who knows that it's weird of him to consider Alexander a friend. The other parts of him though, the parts that would be kind of okay being a hermit for the rest of eternity, are louder and more insistent that it isn't _that_ weird to be friends with a man you've never met and barely conversed with.

Alexander's criticisms have slowly gotten more personal over the course of each book, sometimes revealing little tidbits about himself unintentionally. Thomas is a little embarrassed over how well he considers he knows the man, given that Alexander never really comes out and says anything about himself straight.

But there are hints scattered everywhere. Thomas is almost certain that Alexander works in politics, to some extent. His knowledge on the subject is vast and seemingly endless, and he's far more passionate about financials - something so boring not even Thomas wants to study it - than anyone other human being alive.

He has an ex-wife, who Alexander made a joke about in one of his earliest books, _this dialogue is as dry and passionless as my marriage_ , which he then retracted in the very next book, _oh my god I can't believe I wrote that I'm so sorry Eliza I was just bitter over the divorce I actually can't believe I could be that petty towards you_ -

And on and on. There's an entire page dedicated to apologising to this Eliza, despite the fact that there is no way she could have even seen the joke nor does Thomas have any freaking clue who she is. It does, however, insinuate a particular dynamic between Alexander and Eliza, as well as the fact that they're no longer together.

(Thomas ignores how that makes him feel a little warm inside, because it's fucked up to be happy at the end of someone else's relationship).

There's a parcel near his door.

Opening it up reveals his own book, complete with annotations. Thomas sits and gets comfortable, ensuring there's a pen and paper nearby so he can quickly write any retorts that come to mind, regardless of whether Alexander will ever get to read them.

There's a phone number written inside the cover.

Thomas reacts in an entirely calm and reasonable matter befitting a mature adult.

(He calls James and spends a solid ten minutes screaming "Oh my god" at increasingly loud volumes).

 

* * *

 

_Exposed to Inconvenience_

_by Thomas Jefferson_

_To Martha_

_&_

_Alexander_

_That's not how you spell 'Pennsylvania'_

 

* * *

 

 **Alex:** fuk u thats totally how pensylvania is spelt

Thomas was a tad surprised that, for someone so anal about proper grammar, Alex texted like a fourteen year old, complete with weird abbreviations that Thomas had to google to understand.

Quickly sending a screenshot of how Pennsylvania is spelt on Wikipedia, Thomas tries to keep the smile off his face. James is sitting opposite him, and he's taken to looking exasperated whenever Thomas' phone buzzes. If he tires of exasperation, he then looks over at Thomas' bookshelf - which now has an entire shelf dedicated to his own books, sorry Tolstoy - and scoffs.

He and Alex have been texting for a few months. It took Thomas a while to work up the courage; he paced his living room and drafted entire messages, and almost pulled his hair out when the best thing his great, writer brain could think up was a simple 'hey'.

It was awkward for a whole three texts before Alex said something about the inherent flaws in the free market. Unable to stop himself, Thomas had sent a small essay on how Alex's grasp of complicated financial systems was a bit lacking. That set Alex off on his own rant, and suddenly Thomas had spent the entire night arguing over everything from the correct approach for civil liberties to whether chocolate ice cream really was better than vanilla (it isn't).

 **Alex:** tell me u dont treat wikipedia as a credible source

 **Alex:** this explains so much

 **Thomas:** First of all, fuck you

"Thomas, I swear to god, I'm going to throw your phone out a window."

Raising a single eyebrow, Thomas levels James with his best 'I'd like to see you try' look. The effect is slightly ruined by the fact that a) Thomas' eyebrow game still needs a bit of work, he mostly looks constipated when he tries it in the mirror and b) James would very much win if it actually came to that. It's beneficial for their entire friendship that James not call him his bullshit.

"Come on James, I think you and Alex would get along great. He has some wonderful opinions on the impossibility of bipartisanship that I think you would love to hear-"

"Let's not do this again." Thomas lets out a loud cackle at the look on Jemmy's face, one of pure revulsion. James may be just as interested in politics as Thomas, but he doesn't have the same tolerance for bullshit. Thomas loves debate, loves arguing and fighting. There was something intoxicating about a well crafted dispute, and despite how Alex frustrated him with his backwards ideals, the man was an excellent debate partner.

James, on the other hand, had no patience for people who were wrong. If he ever introduced them, Thomas was certain they'd have some spectacular arguments, but they wouldn't send each other shitty memes afterwards.

 **Alex:** so im watching the video of u speaking at william and mary

 **Alex:** wtf r u wearing that's not how suits work

 **Thomas:** I'm a very successful author, I can wear whatever I want

 **Thomas:** Besides, my speech was way better than the one I saw when I was a student there

 **Thomas:** I got cheers and everything

"It's like I'm not even here." James mutters as he stands up, and Thomas would give him the finger but that would mean a pause in his texting speed. Thankfully, James just collects their plates and disappears into the back of the house somewhere. In a corner of his brain, Thomas wonders if he should start charging the man rent; he pretty much lives here.

 **Alex:** they were probably excited at not having to stare at that godawful suit any longer

Despite the insult, Thomas can't help but smile, the warmth in his chest spreading to the tips of his fingers.

He pauses texting.

Fuck.

 

* * *

 

_The Right Mental Attitude_

_by Thomas Jefferson_

_To Martha_

_&_

_Alexander_

_Two minute noodles are not a food group_

 

* * *

 

"James, I can't do this."

"You're fine, breath with me, okay?" James leads him through a simple breathing exercise, his voice tinny over the phone. Theirs is a ritual so well practiced that even thinking of it calms Thomas down.

Currently, Thomas is inside a moderately nice bathroom in a moderately nice restaurant dressed in a moderately nice suit. At James' behest, Thomas hadn't gone all out like he originally planned. There'd be an entire, extravagant evening planned at the best of restaurants, with musicians and shows and everything Thomas could fit in. He'd ended up making a schedule to ensure they fit it all in.

"Thomas..." James had said, seeing his schedule, "you don't want to do all this stuff."

It wasn't a question.

"Well, I was originally going with just the dinner, but then I wasn't sure what type of food he liked - what if he's allergic to something? And then the show, but maybe Alex doesn't really like dramas, maybe he's more a comedy guy, so we need to do both, and then there's the park-"

James held up a hand, silencing the rant before Thomas could spiral any further. "Maybe start with a light dinner? And then you can unload your crazy onto the guy."

And now Thomas was here, hyperventilating in the bathroom of a restaurant he probably had the money to buy if the impulse struck. God, this was a mistake, he should've booked the expensive restaurant, Alex was hardly going to be impressed by this shameful display, why did he even bother coming out tonight-

"Thomas." James repeats; there's a note of exasperation in his voice, and Thomas wonders how long James has been calling his name.

"I'm..." He takes a deep breath, "I'm okay. I'm gonna be okay. I mean, it's just Alex right?"

"It's going to be fine. You're halfway to married already."

"What?"

"You give him a dedication in your books. I don't even get a dedication in your books!"

"Maybe if you weren't such a shit publisher." Thomas tries not to let his voice wobble too much, but always observant, he's certain James caught it. "Thanks James."

"Anytime."

He hangs up, quickly washes his face, and goes to rejoin society. Making his way through the restaurant, Thomas kind of wishes he'd had a drink before he got here; his nerves are killer, and it'd be nice to be a bit tipsy, just enough that he can't feel everyone looking at him. He's about two seconds from turning back and sprinting to the bathroom, ready to completely empty his stomach, when his table comes into a view.

Sitting there is a man.

Thomas is instantly struck with just how much energy is contained in such a small vessel. His entire being seems to be thrumming with movement, fiddling with the salt shaker in one hand and drumming on the table with the other. Brown hair is tied back in a loose ponytail, but it looks a little like he's been running his hands through it, flyaways framing his face. The skin around his eyes is sunken, as if he hasn't slept in weeks, but there's an intelligence that shines through his gaze that somehow makes him look radiant, as opposed to corpselike.

This must be Alex.

"Uh, hi, " is Thomas' eloquent greeting, as he all but collapses into the seat opposite.

Alex snorts rather unattractively. "And here I was expecting a sonnet dedicated to my brilliant personality. Are you sure you're a writer?"

Just like that, the strange tension is gone, and Thomas can feel his mouth run away from him, already arguing without a second thought. "I would ask for a second opinion, but given my company is incapable of spelling three syllable words, I guess we'll both have to live in ignorance."

Alex laughs, bright and uninhibited. Thomas is halfway through mentally writing a poem dedicated to his eyes when he catches himself and realises exactly what he's doing. But the mood is light and Alex's eyes really do glisten with amusement (maybe a hint of cruelty), and Thomas wants to spend the rest of his life studying them.

(It should be a terrifying thought, it should make him want to call James and break down a little.

He laughs instead).

 

* * *

 

_Nothing on Earth_

_by Thomas Jefferson_

_To Martha_

_James (I guess)_

_&_

_Alexander_

_I'm not sure when I fell for your weird goblin ass_

_But I regret every second_

 

* * *

 

Thomas finds a copy of his own book sitting innocuously on his pillow.

The dedication page has been suitably vandalised.

_why do I even put up with you oh my god_

Thomas throws back his head and laughs. From the other room, Alex shouts out:

"You're laughing now, wait till you see my edits!" He sticks his head through the door frame, hair flying in every which direction. "How many times do I have to walk you through modifiers?"

"Every time." Thomas says, and leans down to kiss the most infuriating man he's ever met, smiling all the while.

**Author's Note:**

> a few historical things, because i'm a sucker for historical things:
> 
>   * thomas jefferson did not believe in people editing his work. he was pretty pissed when adams and franklin insisted on editing the declaration 
>   * he was also super into vanilla ice cream, although dolley madison was the person who brought it to america 
>   * hamilton was a big fan of commas and run on sentences. he also misspelt pennsylvania on the constitution, but that more a stylistic thing of the time (it's apparently misspelt on the liberty bell too) 
>   * all of the book titles are from jefferson quotes. in my head he's writing fantasy books 
> 

> 
> i'm on tumblr over [here](https://rev-set.tumblr.com/), come say hey and shout about these dorks with me


End file.
